Until winter, he added, the days become short,
slowly getting darker a minute early. Placing tortes
on the table, planning parties for the Fourth of July.
It'll be dark by nine, we can watch the rockets fly--
if the mosquitoes buzz, inside will be our last resort.
I sat upon the beach, blue waves rushing, I exhort;
let's spend time at Lake Michigan, music is your forte,
he pondered while he took a shot of whiskey and rye.
Until winter, he added, the days become short,
crickets and grasshoppers orchestrate slowly and cavort
the death of summer, our worries vanish or transport.
He then stares at my starstruck face, his subtle kiss implies
that despite the scary persona, he is a rather nice guy;
summer fades while cold October winds creep and thwart--
until winter, he added.
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